


Space Girl

by JaneHudson



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged up Sansa, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Astrology, F/M, Light Smut, Occult, Sansa POV, Slow Build, Wordplay is foreplay, astrology au, slightly sleazy pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17463935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneHudson/pseuds/JaneHudson
Summary: Sansa Stark has chosen a rather odd way of rebelling against her conservative family: she secretly practices as an astrologer. She spends most of her time ministering to elderly aristocrats, but one afternoon she is visited by a rather unexpected client...It's the Occult AU absolutely no one asked for. I'm just using astrology as a plot device here, but if you are really bothered by it, or by the occult in general, definitely give this one a pass and enjoy one of the many other awesome PxS fics in the archive!





	Space Girl

Her oh-so-noble parents would die of shame if they knew.

The _indignity_ of it all. Their eldest daughter, not just trying to earn her own living, but dabbling in…this. The occult.

Oh, but if they only knew how well the occult _paid._ She only had one client coming in today. Given what she could charge, that’s all she really needed.

If her parents had let her study Psychology at Girton instead of making her take the stereotypical Aristocratic Lady’s course of French and Art History, this could have been avoided. She could be a legitimate counselor. Sure, it had been fun to go to Florence with Margaery and it had been tremendously exciting in a fairy tale way when Marg had fallen in love with the son of a Sienese Count, but all her studies had left her with was French that had an Italian accent and a lot of knowledge about Last Supper frescoes.

Her parents hadn’t been impressed. She had been quite shocked to learn that she hadn’t gone to Florence to learn about art. Apparently she had gone so that she could find a continental aristocrat too. Which she had failed to do.

_Oh well._

She had to swallow the last bits of her rueful chuckle, as her client walked through the door.

He was…not what she had expected. Virtually all her clients were women or very old men, men who were sad and afraid and wanted Sansa’s kindness and reassurance and pretty young smile more than any demonstrations of the axiom _as above, so below_.

He was maybe 15 years older than she was. And he didn’t look sad. But one never knew.

What troubled her was that he was clearly not of the aristocracy. She liked that most of her clients were of some sort of title, however diminished. This meant most of them recognized her _and_  knew she recognized them. Oddly enough, she felt her secret was safer that way. After all, as her grandmother (where else would she have learned all this?!) had told her, love for the occult was of the many skeletons in the British aristocracy’s collective closet. It wouldn’t do to air that all out.

She was surprised that he wasn’t looking at her derisively. She was wearing one of her great-grandmother’s old gowns. The late 1920s silhouette was graced with the charm of vintage, but this had never been a silhouette that flattered her. She felt dowdy and shapeless under his gaze. The glasses she had borrowed didn’t fit her face. And she knew that the scarf she used to cover most of her hair made her look like she was sick.

But he looked at her as though he didn’t see any of that.

He hadn’t given her his name, but, then again, almost no one did. “How is it proper to address you? Sir? My Lord? Your Grace?” She knew he wasn’t of her class, but form dictated that she assume it as a possibility.

He laughed in a way that immediately confirmed he was not a lord. “Many people would suggest that even ‘sir’ is being too generous, but I suppose it has to do.”

“Well, sir,” she continued, as she opened her laptop, “I’ll need your time and place and date of birth.”

“April,” he began. “The 24th.”

Sansa looked up at him. “The year? The place? The time? I need this information, or what I can tell you is rather limited.”

“I’m a bit embarrassed about the year,” he said.

Sansa stifled a groan. Honestly, what did people think she was? The human version of a bad newspaper horoscope column?

She pushed paper toward him. “You can write it down.”

He returned the paper. He had a precise hand. Financial industry, Sansa guessed.

“I know there’s no time,” he said. “I don’t know it. But it’s OK. I want to hear anyway.”

Sansa knew she should turn him away—she had studied under two of the most notable professionals in the UK, and they’d both drilled it into her head that she should never read for someone who couldn’t give an exact time. But she didn’t want him to go. She’d be bored without him.

“OK, but there really is a lot I can’t tell you without the time.”

“It’s fine.”

She punched the data into her computer and she groaned. _Of course he’s a Moon cusp,_ she thought. _You should tell him to go._ She could hear the voice of her teachers: “The three key points of the horoscope are the Sun, the Moon, and the Ascendant…” And here was a chart where she could only be 100% sure of the Sun sign. Any reading would be virtually useless.

“I’m sorry to keep repeating this, sir, but I just don’t want you to be dissatisfied with your purchase. There are three really important indicators in any horoscope. We call them the Sun, the Moon, and the Ascendant. You need an exact birth time to properly determine the Ascendant, so I don’t know what your is. But the bigger issue is that you were born on a day when the Moon changed signs, so I can’t even definitely know that. I mean, sir are you—”

“Young lady, if you ask me again, I shall think you wish to banish me from your presence,” he said, with a smile.

_Hmmm, that’s sort of gallant. Pisces Moon. Unless he’s doing the Aries pursuit thing._

“All right,” she said, and pressed the print key. “So, since we know the Sun sign, we should start there. You probably already know this, but you’re a Taurus.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I confess I don’t often feel like one.”

She laughed. This man, whose understated, but extremely luxurious car was parked outside, who was wearing a suit that bore the same hallmarks of the suits worn by her client who _was_ the latest in an ancient line of genuine, honest-to-God Your Graces, who had a Patek Philippe, who wore Guerlain Vetiver, and who got his shoes from the same place as her father…didn’t feel like a Taurus. Right.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Oh, well, you’ve probably been tricked by all those dreadful mass-market descriptions into thinking Taureans are either stubborn and set in their ways or given to laziness and loving homey things like cooking and nature, right?”

He nodded.

“Well of course that doesn’t feel right!” she said. “Because it isn’t. So, first of all, any description that emphasizes slowness won’t feel right because you have a very tight conjunction between the planet Mercury and your Sun, and Mercury probably makes you feel a little bit like a Gemini or a Virgo, which are the two signs it rules. Geminis in particular are very witty and quick and like to have a lot of things going on, especially all that once.”

She couldn’t help but noticed how he played with his hands. And how he’d adorned them with rings. “Mercury/Gemini symbolism can govern the hands. Are you good with your hands?”

“My, getting down to brass tacks quickly, aren’t we?” Sansa knew she should be horrified by his knowing, lascivious smirk, which practically reflected starlight into his greenish eyes. But she wasn’t.

She decided to play coy. “Forgive me, sir. I never mean to cause clients offense. I only meant—”

“Oh, of course, ma’am,” he said, “you only meant to ask if I had hobbies like building or woodwork. Sure, I don’t mind those things.”

Sansa didn’t really know what to say, so she just continued with her mini-lecture. “Like I said, that Mercury thing is part of why you don’t ‘feel’ Taurus. But the bigger part of it is that those mass-produced descriptions sort of miss part of the real nature of the sign. Taurus is about security through possessions. Nice possessions. Lots of people think that’s a Capricorn thing, but Taureans are one of the two signs ruled by Venus, which obviously signals beauty and softness and comfort. Since Taurus is what we call an earth sign—which is why it is gets this association with nature and cooking and sometimes even children—this means the love of beauty shows itself through a love of nice things. Taureans have the capacity to develop very good taste, which, and I’m not just trying to flatter you, sir, it seems you truly have. So that’s why I laughed when you said you didn’t feel like a Taurus.”

“I see,” he said. “So, the fine cotton sheets I cover my bed with—that’s, ah, Taurean?”

“Yes, that would be very Taurean,” she said. “I’ll bet you have a very nice bedroom,” she said, with only genuine and innocent intentions, but—she blushed. The look he gave her in return was not innocent. But he held his tongue.

 _Mercury in an earth sign—careful with his words_ , she thought. She was forced to acknowledge that she was starting to feel a bit flush. She wished she could take the scarf off.

“Yes, well, since you’re a Taurus, we have to look at Venus, which rules your Sun sign. You’ve got a very tight conjunction between Venus and Saturn, which could mean, uh, a couple of things.”

“Oh?” he said.

“It’s hard with men and Venus,” Sansa said. “Some men are in tune with it and it shows in their personality, and some men sort of reject it for being too ‘girly’ and project it outward onto women. This might sound like an odd question, but would you say that you’ve gotten more attractive to women as you’ve aged?”

He held her in his gaze and that smirk slowly spread across his lips again. Sansa was suddenly thankful for the shapelessness of her dress, because it was hiding the fact that his damn smirk was making her squirm.

He took out his phone and danced his fingers over the screen. Satisfied, he handed it to her. “What do you think?”

_Oh God he is totally, totally hotter now. He’ll be hot when he’s fifty. Sixty._

Sansa’s mind was flooded and she was having to take what she felt were obvious deep breaths to calm herself down. “I imagine there are many women who would agree you wear the years well, as they say.”

Another awkward pause. “Do you have a history of relationships with older women?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Ah,” she said. “Well, then, uh, I imagine that, and, well, you probably know this, but I would guess that younger women are probably very drawn to you. The Venus and Saturn conjunction can sometimes behave like a Venus in Capricorn, which is sometimes associated with, uh, I guess they call them sugar daddies, right?”

He almost looked hurt by the suggestion.  “I guess it’s fair to say I am approached by young women who would, at first glance, appear to be above my station…as they say. But rest assured. I am always a gentleman.”

“Oh,” said Sansa, and his eyes flashed. He’d heard the disappointment in her voice.

“So,” he said, gently pulling the printout toward him. “If that’s Venus, this must be Mars.”

 _Mars in Taurus,_ Sansa thought. _Mars and Sun in Taurus, oh my God…_

“Yes,” she said. “Obviously important for those who strongly identify as male. This is probably the most interesting aspect in your chart,” she said, drawing her finger across the circle from the Mars glyph in Taurus to a trident—Neptune—on the opposite side, in Scorpio. She stopped her finger just before it would have touched his own.

_Oh God, did I just shudder?_

She squirmed again and she was rather embarrassed by the situation developing between her legs.

“Interesting aspect, you were saying?”

“Oh, gosh, yes, sorry. Sometimes you lose your train of thought trying to put all this together.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Yes, this is an interesting aspect. There’s a very famous modern astrologer who supports the very convincing theory that Mars-Neptune men are, well, very naughty.”

“No!” he replied, in mock indignation. “Not naughty. I hope you won’t send me away.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” said Sansa, far too eagerly and earnestly. She could tell he wanted to smirk, but suppressed it so that they could continue with their game.

“Yes, well, Mars-Neptune men are very Jekyll and Hyde. They can be creative—”

“Or monstrously self-centered?” He moved his hand to the center of the table, parallel to hers.

“Sensitive—”

“Or an addict, unable to cope with reality?” He leaned in a little.

“A genius—” She leaned in too, despite herself.

“Or a self-deluded fraud?” He was bolder, closer, more obvious.

Sansa suppressed another gulp and leaned back to assert some power. “You seem to have the idea.”

“Would My Ladyship believe me if I swore I kept to the good more than to the bad?”

 _My Ladyship?_ Was this just that suspected gallant Pisces Moon again, or did he recognize her?

“I would be willing to consider it, sir,” Sansa replied. “I’ll just assume your vices don’t go beyond a glass of the finest scotch. Poured from a crystal decanter, of course.”

He smiled. “So, is the only takeaway that I am doomed to forever fight the inclination to be—what is it you young people sometimes say now, a trainwreck?”

Sansa laughed. She had never heard anyone her age say that. “Well, there is something else—”

Her cheeks flushed. God, did she really want to talk about this? But she kind of had to, right? People only came to see her to talk about money, love, or death. This man had plenty of the first and did not fear the last, so…

“Forgive me if this is unladylike, sir,” she began, “but I would be remiss if I failed to mention the rather famous _drive_ of Mars in Taurus.”

“Oh…’drive’?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “It’s not just a sex drive, but, yes, it _includes_ the sex drive.”

He was idly rolling an empty candle holder in his hand. The obvious symbolism was not lost her. “Do tell me more.”

“Every expert acknowledges that Mars in Taurus has impressive staying power in all physical activities, which would, of course, include sex.”

“A gentleman cannot exactly proffer _reviews_ of his endurance, can he? But, I hope you’ll believe me when I say that your trenchant analysis is correct so far.”

Those eyes. That smirk. His smell, his style, his wit, his confidence. Sansa realized, with both embarrassment and amazement, that she was genuinely on the verge of an orgasm.

Sansa decided she’d look at an ephemeris later and find some Uranus aspect or some stupid asteroid or something to justify what she was pretty sure was about to happen as a simple, unavoidable consequence of fate itself. _As above, so below._

She had to make her intentions more obvious. She pulled the knot of her scarf loose as she began again. “Yes, well, they say Mars in Taurus can go forever. That he enjoys spoiling his lover.”

The scarf finally slid off her head, and his eyes were dark as a forest, flooded with earthy, Taurean lust.

“Since he is in Taurus,” she continued, playing with the ribbons at the top of her dress, “this Mars despises sex that is quick or thoughtlessly rough or that takes place in ugly or uncomfortable settings.”

“Oh yes, such things would be vulgar, especially for a delicate and beautiful lady.” He—finally—took her hand and Sansa felt an honest-to-God jolt go through her body.

He let go of her hand for a moment to take off his suit jacket and loosen his tie—but just for a moment. Then he greedily seized it again, and began stroking it, feather-light and gentle. Just the way she wanted.

“We have spent too much time talking about me. It’s so impolite. Tell me, sweet lady, what do _you_ desire? In your fantasies, where does your lover ravish you?”

_Yep, I’m now fully betting on Pisces Moon. What other Moon could use the word ‘ravish’ and not sound like a total sleaze…_

"My dear?”

 _Oh go for it, you ridiculous girl._ “Well, I have a lot of Neptune influence. So—I guess I imagine someplace secret, like a fantasy garden, with fragrant flowers and water, and songbirds, and paths for the lovers to walk. And a house of glass and stone, with a gold door, and a beautiful bed piled high with velvets, and silks and soft pillows.”

_What are you doing, you idiot? You sound like a crazy person!!_

He smiled and all the playfulness was gone, replaced by a disarmingly simple sincerity. “Someone in that great house you probably grew up in must have read you a lot of tales. Fortunately, even a commoner like me can recognize the inspiration for that one. My precious Isolde, I could give you your lover’s grotto. I could adorn it to satisfy every fancy in your head and then some. But does it not trouble you that I am more Mark than Tristan?”

Sansa reached out and ran her fingers through the grey in his hair. “I t-told you, you wear the years well…uh…?”  _She didn't even know his name!_

“Petyr.”

“Petyr.” It sounded good. “I’m Sansa.”

“Sansa,” he said gently, “this is not where I would personally choose to attend to you, to love you, to worship you as you deserve, but I confess I am overwhelmed. Would you permit me…?”

She nodded, and he swept her up in his arms to take her over to her couch. She was positively shocked. She was tall, and he wasn’t. She hadn’t expected this particular gesture of chivalry to be even possible.

He placed her down on the cushions like she was a fragile antiquity who worth was beyond money. He deftly undid his suit vest and removed his tie. She started to take off her dress, but he stopped her.

“Let me. I’m in a better position to be careful with it. It’s obviously lovely and old, although I fear it doesn’t suit you.”

He gently slid the dress up her body with one hand, and ran the other over all the bends and curves of her body. Her skin flushed and prickled and shivered.

“It doesn’t honor your beautiful shape,” he murmured. “Why do I think your parents could drape you in gowns that would honor your stunning body—but they just don’t want to?”

Sansa’s silence was—correctly—taken as assent.

“Rest assured, I would buy them without hesitation.”

Sansa wanted to tell him that she could buy her own dresses with the money she made doing this, but her mind was inundated with currents of water and starlight, and her body was on fire. And her dress was off.

He showered her with kisses and gentle touches and she felt as though she was being transported beyond space or time, as though she was in a boat set adrift in some sort of cosmic sea, and there was nothing but the two of them and all his devoted ministrations.

Another jolt wracked her body and brought her back to earth in the best possible way. _Was it really dark?_ It had to be—she could see stars through her window. _How long has he been…?_

She was completely naked and his shirt was off and she had no recollection of how any of that happened. And his head was between her legs. His shoulders were beautiful, more shapely than she’d imagined they would be. Shoulders and arms and hands were so important.

It wasn’t long before she began to moan and almost involuntary twitch and clench. Of course he knew what he was doing. Of course he did. Her back arched and she gasped and warmth flooded her.

Sansa melted back into the cushions and had an overwhelming urge to sleep. But something in her brain told her that wasn’t right.

She opened her eyes and protested in a slurred and drowsy voice, “It’s your turn.”

He nodded his head. “We’ll worry about me when we’re somewhere more comfortable, Sweetling.”

Sweetling. Sansa liked that.

“But what about making sure you’re pleased too?”

He stroked her cheeked and gently kissed her. “Your pleasure is mine.”

Sansa was able to take him by surprise when she quickly sat up and flipped him over so that he was resting on the cushions. She felt a little guilty for not being gentle, but he didn’t seem to mind. She rested herself on his chest and pulled the tatty little blanket over her. She could tell he was almost offended by the notion of this old, acrylic thing touching her bare skin, but she was able to soothe his indignation by gently kissing his shoulders and running her fingers down his arms and occasionally squeezing his hands.

Later, Sansa finally found the courage to ask the question that had haunted her since he walked in the door.

“Why did you come to see me?”

“I am an advisor to some prominent men. One of those men is an old Marquess who began to speak like a lovesick fool about the beautiful girl he visited for what he called ‘counseling.’ I must confess, sweet lady, that I first began tracking you on the assumption that you were attempting to worm your way into the Marquess’s will. But then I saw you and I recognized you and I decided you were even lovelier than all those society pages and tabloid articles made you out to be and then I decided I would have you for myself. Does that scare you, Lady Stark?”

“It probably should,” said Sansa, as she nuzzled his shoulder. “But no, it doesn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> I heard the song "Space Girl" by Eliza Carthy and The Imagined Village for the first time the other day and it just screamed PxS to me. So, I got it into my head to do something with a space/stars theme--I wanted to push myself to do something that wasn't mannered and depressing, like my other WIP and all the LOTR fic I wrote ages ago, so I forced myself to write a modern AU that is more explicit than I'm used to writing. Since I wrote a major paper about the occult and European aristocracy in college, I decided to take things in that direction. 
> 
> I used parts of Herr Gillen's horoscope as a reference for Petyr. My actual astrology knowledge comes from the internet research I did for this fic, so if I've gotten anything badly wrong, I'd appreciate a gentle correction in the comments.
> 
> BTW, someone with actual video editing talent should make a PxS video to the song: https://genius.com/The-imagined-village-space-girl-lyrics


End file.
